


Don't Step on the Grass, Sam

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drugs Made Them Do It, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 22:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Dean returns from a night out to find Sam smoking something he shouldn't be...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not much plot here, but there IS giggly, stoned boys doing naughty things to each other. Shotgunning, slight underage depending on your location (Sam is 17), and possibly slightly dubious consent...*shrugs*

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

  
Dean slams the driver's door hard enough to make himself wince.  
  
“Sorry, Baby,” he murmurs, patting the roof gently and locking her up. It takes a few stabs to get the key in the lock, and Dean realises as he weaves unsteadily towards the motel room that it's a good job Dad's out of town or he'd hand him ass for driving the Impala after three shots and Bud chasers on an empty stomach.  
  
Dean slots the key into the lock on the cheap, plywood door with determined, sober precision and shunts it open with his foot.  
  
“Sammy! I'm back!”  
  
Silence greets him. The edges of the sparse motel furniture are outlined by the slice of sickly light from the parking lot, but otherwise the place is dark.  
  
“Sammy?”  
  
Dean steps inside slowly, his pulse just beginning to pick up, fingers twitching and already moving for the gun tucked down the back of his pants.  
  
“SAM?”  
  
He hears a noise from behind the closed bathroom door. Something like a hiccup. It sounds stifled and Dean sobers up like he's been doused with cold water. He withdraws the gun from his waist band and stalks quickly to the bathroom.  
  
That's when it hits him. The smell. Dean can't believe he only just noticed it. His own clothes are steeped in stale alcohol and cigarette smoke, but this is different. Green and cloying, the air around him thick with it.  
  
That noise again. But this time Dean hears it for what it is. A giggle smothered with the back of a hand.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
He tries the door. It locked.  
  
“What the fuck, Sam? Open the door...now!”  
  
He hears a shuffling movement behind the door, the squeak of sneakers on old linoleum. Then the metal snick of the bolt being drawn. Dean shoulders the door, but there is still something wedging it shut.  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
“Shit! Hang on!”  
  
There's more movement from floor level and finally the door swings open releasing a fug of bluish smoke out into the bedroom.  
  
Sam is stood, squinting in the harsh yellow glare of the strip lighting. The extractor fan over the toilet whirs and clunks ineffectually, doing nothing to disperse the thick haze. Sam's holding a towel, having just, Dean supposes, unstuffed it from under the door to keep the potent aroma of weed from leaking out.  
  
Dean scans the room then tucks the gun back in his waistband.  
  
“The fuck is going on, Sam?”  
  
Sam shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his face doing a weird sort of contortion act. Dean frowns at him for a few seconds, bemused, before he realises Sam is trying not to laugh.  
  
“You're high as a kite, dude!”  
  
At that Sam's lips press together tightly before a huge guffaw bursts from between them, making a sort of raspberry on the way out. Dean watches open-mouthed as his seventeen-year-old brother doubles over, helpless with laughter. Dean is so not drunk enough for this shit.  
  
“Yeah, laugh it up, Sammy-boy. Let's see how funny it is when you're pulling a whitey and puking all night. What if Dad comes back huh? It's not just your ass he'd pulverize, dick-hole.”  
  
Sam is obviously trying to pull himself together, but not doing a particularly good job. His pupils are huge, his cheeks flushed. Dimples pitting the corners of his wide mouth, strong white curve of his teeth glinting, pink flash of tongue pushed up behind them.  
  
Dean softens. Sam looks happy. He's stoned. It's a false, chemical sort of happiness, but still it's good to see the kid laugh like that. Even if he's out of his fucking mind right now. And Dean must be getting baked just breathing in this room because he finds himself reciprocating Sam's goofy grin.  
  
“Where'd you get that shit anyway?”  
  
Sam straightens up and walks over to the toilet, sits down on the closed lid.  
  
“A kid at the last school. Remember that birthday party I got invited to in Jacksonville? Well some guy on the football team, Jason or Jake or somethin' asked me to hold it for him in case his girlfriend found it on him and we blew town the next day sooo...”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows and whistles.  
  
“Wanna be careful, brother. Kid might be connected. You might find a horse's head in your bed one day soon.”  
  
“Har har. Look who's talking. What have you been up to tonight, Dean? Huh? Hustling pool and hitting on other men's girlfriends. You're in no position to be acting the narc.”  
  
Dean perches on the edge of the grimy bathtub.  
  
“Seriously though, kiddo. This isn't like, a regular thing right? I mean...it's not a...problem.”  
  
Dean feels stupid as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He and Sam live in each other's pockets. Spar most days. Hunt together. Look out for each other. They have each other's backs. He'd know if his kid brother was toasted on a frequent basis.  
  
Sam huffs his bangs off his clammy forehead.  
  
“This is like the third time ever. Just seemed like a waste to toss it, and I wasn't gonna sell it, but I knew you'd give me a hard time so I waited til you and Dad were both...”  
  
Dean bristles at that.  
  
“Whoa! What're you saying? That I'm some kind of buzz-kill?”  
  
Sam looks over at him with glassy eyes, and a smile slowly eases across his lax face.  
  
“Well? Have you ever even...?”  
  
The question hangs on the air a while, like it's having trouble cutting a pathway through the smoke.  
  
Dean scoffs.  
  
“Have I? Of course I have, Sam. I'm a man of the world.”  
  
Dean's not very good at lying to Sam, but this is a very white lie and his masculine pride is smarting.  
  
“So...you wanna?”  
  
Sam looks at him, brow lifted expectantly.  
  
“Sure,” Dean hears himself say. “Why don't you...skin up or whatever the kids say these days.”  
  
He feels ridiculous. Like someone's Grandpa. He hopes Sam doesn't call him out and ask him to roll. He's never done it before. Wouldn't know where to start. The truth is, Dean's always fancied leaning against the Impala, a cigarette dangling from his plush lower lip, James Dean style. It would suit him. No doubt. But it takes practice. Every time he's tried it, he's ended up coughing his guts up. And there's nothing sexy about the nausea, the taste of ash in his mouth. Too much like charred bones and blackening pyres.  
  
Plus Dad would tan his hide. Dean knows John used to smoke back in the day, like most military men, but things are different now. He expects his boys to keep in peak physical condition, and Dean's always been afraid he wouldn't be able to keep up the punishing morning runs and weapons training with a twenty a day habit.  
  
But Sam has removed a clear plastic bag from his back pocket and retrieved a tobacco tin from on top of the cistern. He opens the tin and balances the lid on one bony knee, while long, deft fingers pluck a thin paper from a small packet and smooth it out delicately on the flat metal surface. Next he takes a large pinch of burnt-umber tobacco and teases it out in a line along the crease of the paper, before sprinkling some of the mossy green weed from the bag on top of that. With a seeming slight of hand, he twists the paper up before bringing it to his lips to tongue along the gummed edge. Dean tracks the lick with his eyes, a tingle of nervous anticipation starting to bloom from low down in his guts.  
  
Sam examines the joint before tearing off a little strip of card from the flap of the cigarette paper packet. This he rolls, minutely, between thumb and forefinger, before slipping it into the narrow end. He twists the fatter end, sealing it, and hands it to Dean.  
  
Cocky little bastard.  
  
Dean takes it with a slightly tremulous hand. He licks his lips, careful not to get them too wet, before he rests the open end against his lower lip.  
  
Sam stands, reaches in his pocket and withdraws a disposable lighter, sparking it up and bringing the flame up to the tip.  
  
Dean leans forward to meet it, and watches the paper catch, disintegrating into red and black curls, sucking until he feels searing smoke flood his mouth. He breathes in, more in shock at the potency of it than anything, and is rewarded with a suffocating burn in his chest. He heaves and splutters, vaguely aware of Sam laughing again as he tries to expel the nasty smog from his lungs.  
  
Sam's large hand claps him on the back, his damp palm landing with a loud smack on the leather of his jacket.  
  
“Dude! Take it easy!”  
  
Dean gives a final hack and manages to pull in air. His eyes are watering and his throat feels raw.  
  
“Thought you said you'd done this before,” Sam says taking the spliff from between his fingers and putting it up to his own mouth.  
  
Dean scowls, watches Sam's lips purse around the end where his own were moments before. Sam takes a long drag, holds the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, eyes fluttering shut, before blowing out a long plume. A few wisps of smoke leak from his nostrils. Dean's not sure he approves of his kid brother being able to toke like a life-long stoner, but he has to admit, Sam looks kind of cool doing it.  
  
He needs to save face.  
  
“Don't hog it. Here. Gimme,” he says, taking the joint back from Sam. This time he's ready for the dense, herbal taste and the hot feel of it going down, but he draws too deeply, trying to emulate what Sam just did, and he can't prevent the dry cough which follows his hasty exhalation.  
  
When he looks over at Sam, the kid's smiling. His face is all relaxed, eyelids heavy-looking. Dean feels the drug beginning to loosen his limbs. His neck suddenly feels to spindly to properly support his head. Weird how he's never really noticed that before. He takes another careful pull and hands the joint back to Sammy. Yeah, he's starting to feel good now, the warm thrum in his blood almost outweighing the irritated tickle along the length of his windpipe.  
  
Sam inhales and breathes out with a sigh. His legs are splayed open, ankles rolled out, and Dean's struck by how much of him there is these days. He's really starting to fill out, Dean's hand-me-down shirts no longer hanging off broad, skinny shoulders. Now they stretch across the gentle swell of pecs, hug nicely rounded deltoids. Dean sees where a button has slipped open to reveal a glimpse of tummy. Dean knows it's not a squishy little pot anymore, but a hard, ridged plane. Sam's jeans are taut around his muscular thighs, and there's a healthy sized bulge cradled in the worn-soft denim of the crotch.  
  
Dean swallows and closes his eyes, feeling his heartbeat in his fingers and toes.  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, voice husky from the weed. “Wanna try something? Should make it go down smoother.”  
  
Dean open his eyes.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“You don't smoke, man. I know it feels harsh on the way down at first, but there's a way to make it better.”  
  
Dean's pretty sure Sam is accusing him of being a bit of wuss, albeit in a caring, sharing kind of way, but he's a little stoned now and he wants more of this pleasant, floaty sensation so he nods.  
  
“Show me.”  
  
Sam scoots over to sit next to Dean on the edge of the tub. He gets in close, their bodies butted up along the length of their arms. Sam takes a draw, holds it, turns his head towards Dean and tilts his head. Moves in almost like he's going to -  
  
“WHOA!” Dean starts at the brush of his brother's lips against his and springs to his feet. “What the fuck was that, Sam?”  
  
Sam is blinking at him, confused.  
  
“Shotgunning. It's called shotgunning, Dean. You breathe in as I breathe the smoke out. Take it in. Should go down smooth.”  
  
Shotgunning. OK. That's what it was. Sam had a legitimate reason for pressing his mouth on his brother's like they were about to make out. OK. Fine. Dean almost laughs with relief. Almost.  
  
“A little warning next time, man! That was...weird.”  
  
Sam snorts.  
  
“Don't be such a pussy and come here.”  
  
Dean sits back down and watches Sam lick his lips and take another drag. Dean looks intently as Sam moves in and slants his mouth over his brother's. His eyes are closed, dark lashes flitting softly against the delicate hollows under his eyes. Dean feels Sam pry his lips open and sucks as he releases a steady stream of aromatic smoke into his waiting mouth.  
  
It burns much less this time, and he manages to hold it in. For a few long moments, everything is still save the blades of the fan and Dean's heart, beating a hectic tattoo against his ribs. Dean holds his lungful of grassy smoke, and Sam's mouth twitches against his own. Sam's breath feels cool as it passes over the places where his spit has moistened the sensitive skin of Dean's lip.  
  
Finally, he moves back and Dean sighs out, deflates, releasing the twice-smoked load into the thick atmosphere of the bathroom.  
  
“See!” Sam says, “Feels good that way huh?”  
  
Dean distantly wonders who taught his brother that trick and whether or not he wants to break both their legs for it. It's excruciatingly intimate, something Sam's taken inside of him passing into his body. He hates the thought of him doing it with someone else, and that troubles him too. But he feels buzzed and lethargic and decides he'll think about it when he isn't high.  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. Feels good. Hit me again.”  
  
Sam smiles and keeps his eyes locked with Dean's as he takes another draw and catches his brother's mouth with his own. Dean very deliberately remains stock still and tries to keep his tongue way back in his mouth as he inhales. This time he feels laughter bubble up as he blows out, and knows that he's wasted.  
  
“'M gonna lie down, get comfy” he says, getting to his feet and swaying a little before stumbling back into the sleeping area. He toes off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket, puts his gun on the nightstand and undoes his belt before flopping down on one of the queen-sized beds. “Hey!” he calls out. “Get your ass in here! I want another hit.”  
  
He sees Sam fill the door frame, the light behind him making him a shadow figure. So damn big, Dean thinks, absently scratching at his belly. Not a kid anymore.  
  
He tracks Sam's progress across the floor, surprised that instead of sitting on his own, Sam comes and sits on the edge of Dean's bed.  
  
“Personal space much?” Dean says, one eyebrow cocked.  
  
Sam rolls his eyes in the half light.  
  
“Shut up, jerk. Want it or not?”  
  
Dean swallows, acutely aware of the shady nuances of Sam's tone, and the fact that his own stupid dick has taken a little substance abuse and a little lip to lip contact with his brother as a signal to chub up.  
  
“Yeah,” he says low and hoarse. “I want it.” There's no reason in the world those words should make a little more blood rush into his fattening cock. It must be the drugs.  
  
“OK then,” Sam says quietly and relights the burnt out end of the joint, sucking long and hard on it before looming over his prostrate brother and spilling the heady smoke between his parted lips.  
  
Dean pulls it down, holds it there, feeling it seep into his system. He licks his lips, only Sam hasn't really moved away at all and his tongue flicks briefly over his brother's lips.  
  
Sam makes a noise. A tiny, aborted moan in his throat, and Dean's damn dick twitches and fills, all the way hard now. He breathes out, the smoke making Sam blink and shrink back, and Dean sits up. Time to stop this. Obviously being stoned gives Dean's downstairs brain ideas. Ideas he really doesn't need to be having in close proximity to his teenage brother. His brother who is studying him with a glazed expression, the whites of his eyes a little pink, even in this light, his mouth hanging open slightly, brow furrowed prettily and a sheen of sweat in the dip above his collar bone.  
  
“I think we've had enough, Sam. Pinch it out now.”  
  
Sam smiles.  
  
“C'mon, man. There's not much left. Don't be a lightweight.”  
  
“Sam!” Dean tries to make his voice stern, but it just comes out tired-sounding.  
  
“Dean! Don't wimp out on me, man. C'mon. Just a couple more. Tell me you don't feel totally awesome right now.”  
  
Dean thinks about that. He does feel pretty awesome. He's limber and deliciously sleepy. He can't seem to bring himself to care that he didn't get a single phone number tonight, or that his back is still twinging from time to time where a poltergeist threw him into a kitchen dresser last month, making him walk like a man three times his age on bad days.  
  
But there's something wrong with this picture. Something that feels like fear. It's got something to do with the way Dean can't stop looking at how flawless and dewy Sam's skin is. The way he can feel his pulse in his dick, and any second now Sammy is going to notice his butt is about four inches away from Dean's hard-on.  
  
“Ready?” Sam asks, and Dean is about to protest when Sam jolts up to kneel next to Dean, swinging one long leg over him and settling his weight across Dean's hips. It happens too fast for Dean to process, but the realisation that Sam is basically sitting on his hard cock sends spikes of nauseating panic through his stomach.  
  
But Sam doesn't seem to have noticed. He's taking another toke, leaning in, shifting back slightly, wriggling on Dean's dick, to bring his face down over his brother's. It's not as tentative this time. Sam's lips are firmly over his, sealing their mouths together, so that when Dean opens for it and breathes in, they create a vacuum. When Sam breaks off, he lets his lips drag sweetly over Deans.  
  
A kiss, Dean thinks. That was a kiss.  
  
Sam's a picture of innocence, wreathed in a swirling blue fog. He bites down on his lower lips, licks it, takes another hit.  
  
Dean's ready for it this time. When he feels the tip of Sam's slick tongue slip into his mouth, he balls his fist in Sam's hair and yanks him back.  
  
“Stop it!”  
  
He's going for authoritative, but it comes out broken and raspy.  
  
Sam narrows his fox eyes, Dean's fingers still snarled in his hair. Then he rolls his hips, achingly slow.  
  
Dean groans.  
  
“Sam! You have to stop.”  
  
Sam smirks. Little bitch actually smirks. There's a finial of smoke bleeding from his nose.  
  
“Y'know, that'd have more conviction if your boner wasn't poking me in the bellybutton right now, Dean.”  
  
Sam's right. Dean's belt is open, his zipper straining.  
  
“Get off.” Dean gives a little tug on Sam's hair.  
  
Sam laughs and a bit more smoke puffs out of him.  
  
“Yeah, I think I will,” he says, and Dean isn't sure if he wants to punch the smug look off his face or kiss it off.  
  
His hips cant up a fraction and Sam gets the same look he gets when he wins rock, paper, scissors.  
  
Dean is lost.  
  
Sam takes another draw, the joint burned down nearly to the roach now, he leans down, and Dean lifts his chin, head coming up off the pillow, chasing it. Sam makes to fit his lips over Dean's, but at the last minute he pulls back and exhales a cloud of potent smoke right in his brother's face, laughing as he does it.  
  
Dean cuffs him on the head, not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to show him who's boss. It's meant to get them back on even ground, a simple, fraternal assertion of the pecking order, but with his cock throbbing under the warm weight of his brother's ass, his spit drying on his lips, roughhousing feels charged and dangerous.  
  
Then Sam's mouth is on his again, the sticky and the sweet flooding his throat, and Dean feels like he might float away as the drug works its anodyne magic and Sam's tongue slides in alongside his own.  
  
They're kissing now. No doubt. Under the whiskey and beer, under the grassy flavour of the drug and its giddy rush, they are kissing.  
  
Dean is making out with his seventeen year old brother.  
  
Sam starts to pump his hips against Dean's, and even as he feels sickness wash over him, Dean humps back and whispers,  
  
“Yeah, Sammy. Just like that.”  
  
Smears it across his lips. Sam whimpers and reaches out to put the remaining stub of the joint on the nightstand. He works a hand down between their bodies and Dean hears the metal teeth of a zipper being ripped apart. He's not sure if it's his or Sam's.  
  
Sam's warm fingers worm down his jeans, and he feels Sam's knuckles brush his swollen cock and come away wet. He lets Sam wrestle his fly open, their underwear is pushed down, and Dean feels the tacky skin of his brother's cock against his own.  
  
He moans hard and Sam sets back to churning sinuously against him, his tongue seeking Dean's again, sloppy and artless.  
  
Dean's hand is still snagged in Sam's hair, so he loosens his grip, lets his hands stroke down the length of his brother's body, feels the muscles in his back and ass bunch as he moves. He's panting hard into Dean's ear, against his open mouth, little gasps and moans punctuating his thrusts.  
  
Somewhere in the midst of the confusion, Dean's desire for control kicks in, and he flips them, knees planted either side of Sam, straddling him, as he pulls his tee up over his head.  
  
“Shit,” Sam mumbles and starts to unbutton his own shirt. Dean watches as Sam's rippling flesh is revealed, inch by inch, his huge cock sticking out of his twisted up boxers and jeans.  
  
“Holy fuck, Sammy,” he moans, shoving his own jeans and underwear down and off. Every nerve ending is alight. He's shivering although his skin is flushed and over-heated.  
  
Sam's giant hands land on his bare ass, spreading the cheeks and pulling him back down on top of his brother so they can start grinding again, dripping cocks unimpeded by clothing. Sam's hands knead him, sneaky fingers dip into his crack.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“Shh...it's OK. Want this. Want you. Such a nice ass, Dean. Never realised my big brother had such a hot ass.”  
  
As he babbles on, Sam pushes Dean up, holds him open, his dick riding the crease.  
  
“No, Sam. Stop,” Dean says. His voice may waver little, but the thought of Sam trying to stuff that thing where the sun don't shine is worrying to say the least. It's like a fucking baby's arm. How did he even let things get this far anyway?  
  
“It's OK, Dean. Just this. Just this. Please.”  
  
The head of Sam's cock glides along his crack. Sam's wet, wetter than Dean usually gets, although right now his own slit is welling with a steady trickle of slippery, clear fluid.  
  
Sam's head drops back onto the pillow and he lets out a long groan. His bleary eyes roll back in his his head.  
  
“Oh Jesus, Dean. I'm gonna come. Need to come so bad.”  
  
Dean feels his brother's cock rub over his twitching hole. It sends little shocks of drug-heightened sensation through him and for a second he thinks about telling Sam to put it in anyway. He doesn't care if it hurts. He wants it to hurt. Just let Sam fuck into him and really give it to him hard.  
  
But then Sam's face screws up tight, a strangled noise coming out of him, and Dean feels warm come streak the small of his back, and run back down into the crease of his ass.  
  
“That's it, Sammy. Yeah,” he coos, gently twisting Sam's nipples to give his orgasm a little edge. “That's right, come all over my ass. Look so hot when you come.”  
  
His words make his guts feel all twisted up, but it doesn't make them any less true. Sam does look hot. Hotter than anything Dean's ever seen, and the filthy, sick wrongess of that does nothing to stop the motion of Dean's pelvis as he drops forwards to rock his aching dick between Sam's damp, sticky thighs.  
  
It may actually be the thing that makes him come so hard he goes blind for a while, pumping and spilling long and hard, covering Sam's balls with his release.  
  
He slumps onto Sam, head spinning, mouth dry. Sam's heart is hammering beneath him, his breath coming in shallow, laboured little pulls.  
  
“Goddamn,” Dean says into Sam's shoulder. “Sonofabitch.”  
  
Sam is quiet, his breathing gently slowing.  
  
Dean says,  
  
“That shouldn't have happened. I'm sorry, Sammy. I shouldn't've let that happen.”  
  
Sam quirks his shoulder — a tiny shrug under Dean's head.  
  
“I liked it. I liked it a lot,” he says quietly. Then adds. “I'd like to do it again.”  
  
Dean thinks it must be the pot still working in his blood, because suddenly he feels like laughing. This is messed up. Even by their standards.  
  
Sam drops a soft kiss on the side of his head, and something unravels in Dean. Another kiss, on his neck, one on his cheek. Finally he turns his head and lets Sam kiss his lips. It still feels weird, but it's warm and the cushion of Sam's mouth is plump and welcoming. He tastes like pot.  
  
“You're still a kid,” he says when he pulls back for air. “you don't know what you want. It shouldn't be this. You know that, right?”  
  
Sam smothers his words with more kissing.  
  
“Shut up, Dean. Idiot.”  
  
Sam murmurs it into his sweaty hair before plundering his mouth in earnest. And Dean lets him. He feels leaden and weightless all at once. He's in no state to stand up to Sam right now. He'll set him straight in the morning when he's not so...blissed out. Yeah. That's what's going to happen.  
  
Sam's cock starts to swell against Dean's groin as their kissing gets more heated.  
  
In the morning. He'll definitely sort this out in the morning...

* * *

 

 


End file.
